ten thousand stitches crossed
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: [UKUS] America finds a way to get close to England again. If it means ruining most of his wardrobe, well, there are some sacrifices worth the payoff.


**once upon a time**

In the following years after the Revolution, there were few memories of England that weren't tainted by frustration and spite. He would outgrow them in time, but for a while the money was spread too thin and the people had their hands full cleaning up the mess war had left strewn across America's landscape. The relentless labor, as well as the physical reminders of their bitter clashes, kept America from looking past the layer of bitterness that remained crusted like a scab on his heart. Too often, he had to remind himself: _What did I expect?_

He'd been the one to rip his hand away, after all. And freedom, however roughly hewn, was still freedom. No regrets.

There was one memory, though, that America drew out of the depths and found gleaming pure. It was such a little thing. He hadn't even meant to unearth it—the afternoon was suffused with the lazy warmth of June, perfect weather to clean up the house he could now call his own, and so he'd been counting how many shirts he had left. Four, maybe six if he counted the ones that were almost too threadbare to wear. Not that it would stop America. He took no notice of that kind of thing.

His favorite shirt, a comfortable cotton spun in light blue, had a hole in the elbow. America stuck his finger through it, wiggling it about, and what do you know, up the memory floated to the forefront of his mind.

When had it happened? He wasn't sure. He reckoned the timing didn't matter so much, anyway. Youth blurred together: land then people then sea bringing more people ( _and England_ ). Perhaps it was because the memory was so lost in the grand scheme of things that America touched it and felt nothing but a strange, sad ache.

 _Oh, look here. What's this, then?_

America remembered the way the wind brushed fingers through the long prairie grass like a tease, and how England had sat him down on a rock and taken the hem of his dressing gown in hand. _You've snagged it,_ said England, kneeling before the child with a slight smile. _See? The edge is just about torn straight away._

 _Oh. I'm sorry._

 _Don't be._

England studied it, eyes keen and brighter than the hillside. _I can fix this._

And he had. Later that night, after dinner had filled America's belly to bursting, England took America in his lap and showed him how to stitch a straight line that brought the flimsy bit of white cloth back together again. It had looked good as new. Against the firelight, the needle glittered, and England's heartbeat was strong and calm against America's cheek. It was the first time England sewed for America's clothes, but not the last; over the years, the mending pile grew exponentially in regards to how quickly America did. As soon as one hole closed, another would take its place, but no longer than England's swift, nimble fingers could stand it.

Strange, that America should recall it so vividly.

There was no one to mend his shirts anymore. America was a nation that stood on his own feet and darned his own socks. The hand-stitched toys and handkerchiefs, the embroidered patches and old-fashioned thimbles, belonged to a colony that no longer existed in the eyes of the world.

And as America clutched his shirt to his chest, he cried for the first time since becoming new.

 **it starts with a button**

Embroidery was something of a handy art.

Stitching was always at least partly man's domain; while ladies of respectable background or idle hands spent their time in parlors creating elegant supplements to their bedding, the sea was full of men who knew their half-stitches and tweed. Sailors, the hardiest of seamstresses—or clever pirates, if you wanted to get down and dirty about it—needed to know the skill to survive the journey of the ocean with some dignity. England, of course, was a very fast learner. And many years after the necessity died, he enjoyed the quiet satisfaction of a well-applied cross-stitch just as much as he had the plundering of a Spanish merchant vessel.

It came in handy so often, and it was a personal touch rarely afforded. The cross-stitch, not the plundering.

So he liked to embroider. If it could be handmade, it was best to go through with the hand-making process; it was a lot like cooking in that way. England was a firm believer in doing a job yourself if you have the means to.

And if you didn't have the means, you should stay the bloody hell away from a needle. Honestly.

Like America. Take America.

They were crowded around a conference table just small enough to be uncomfortable, meeting about something related to France (which meant that England just didn't give a damn). America, as usual, was waving his arms about and boasting about an awesome plan that would solve all the problems in the room (and then some). England very much doubted it. Normally, he would've interjected and explained exactly _why_ he doubted it, but England was distracted.

It was America's jacket.

That stupid, badly treated jacket and its buttons that had likely _never_ been replaced.

"And then we'll all go out for burgers!" America shouted triumphantly. He gave a flourish, which just made the button hanging by a thread from his collar _that much more noticeable_. England gritted his teeth and tried not to look at it.

He was absolutely not looking at it.

Not even a tiny bit.

No.

Not really.

The problem was—really, it was a problem—that England spent most of his very long life thus far patching up after his colonies. Children should be properly clothed and protected from the elements, after all. Besides, frayed linens and holes and stains were so unsightly. So it was killing him, through a slow and torturous death, to see such a gross display of disrepair in America, who despite adamantly rejecting England's care, was still _America_ , damn him to buggery, _his_ America.

There was only one thing to do. As America droned on about laser-equipped tennis shoes, England reached down into his briefcase, unzipped a tiny pocket, and pulled out his miniature sewing kit. This could be considered a time for desperate measures and all.

 _You are pathetic,_ England thought, _and he'll never let you hear the end of it._

Then he told himself, _I know. But I'll do it, anyway._

After the meeting finally subsided, England waited until the room had more or less emptied. America was still trying to cram his things in his own briefcase; it was brimming over with hastily scrawled drawings and paperwork that likely hadn't seen the light of day for quite a while. England approached tentatively, the kit still secure between his fingers.

"America…"

"Huh? Oh, England!" America brightened. "It was a good idea today, right? Because you didn't say anything, so—"

"Your button."

America looked at him blankly.

"On your jacket," clarified England, ears going slightly red. "It's come loose."

Chin met collarbone as America tried to crane his neck to peer down and patted at his jacket. He found the swinging button and made a face. "Okay, and… How does that matter?"

"It looks stupid. Give it to me."

"My jacket?" America looked at him in pure horror. "Never!"

England's head already hurt. Why did that seem so normal now? "Never mind," he said through his grinding molars. "You can just walk around looking like a moron at the meeting you're hosting in front of half of the European nations. Fine. Bloody fantastic. In fact—"

The jacket hit him in the face. England spluttered.

"If you're gonna be that way," muttered America, crossing his arms over his chest. His tie was crooked.

Well, the method hardly mattered; he had the jacket. England felt the wired coil inside of his stomach relax, the fabric familiar and heavy in his hands. He sat on the edge of the table and popped open the sewing kit, deftly threading a needle and biting the thread off with his teeth. There was no point to tightening the button when a new job would leave it secure and attached.

It took only two minutes at most. England pulled the thread through confidently and felt the button settle as it should. He bit the line of thread again and knotted.

Deep inside, a heady glow of contentment curled like a cat. _That's better._

England put away his things and looked up at America, who had been suspiciously quiet through the whole thing. He blinked. There was a very odd expression on America's face: wide blue eyes were nevertheless intent, but his mouth twisted as though upset.

"What is it?"

America swallowed and held out his hand. "Nothing. I'd like my jacket back if you're done making it look uncool."

"Ungrateful brat," England groused, handing it over. The warmth ( _like leftover body heat, a colony that had always been too big to fit in England's hand-me-downs_ ) slid out of his grasp and into America's.

America shrugged the jacket on, his face pensive. He fingered the button, newly repaired, as if it were foreign to him now.

England frowned at him and went to repack his briefcase.

Perhaps it was just the open window letting in a breeze that liked mischief, but as England bent over his chair, he could have sworn he heard America murmur something before the door shut. It wasn't quite a _thank you_ , but it had a pleasant tone.

He was glad to have been busy. He wouldn't have known what to say, otherwise.

 **something old, something new**

"I hate you," America told the button.

He didn't mean it. Not much, anyway. It wasn't the button's fault and America loved his jacket too much to be upset with it—the jacket was awesome, after all. If America was honest, this _thing_ about England started way before this, possibly before the jacket even existed, although America had a hard time figuring out where the boundaries blurred and certain ideas had taken root.

But usually, he could push it back down. Bite back on the impulse to _touch_ , to reach out. Ignore the weird butterflies in his stomach.

America was having a very, very rough time doing that right now.

"Shit. Shit. _Why_ , of all things, was it that?" Sewing. Of all the possibilities to corner America into admitting he was screwed, it would be the girly, freaky one. He stuffed another hamburger into his mouth and tried to eat his thoughts into oblivion. It could happen. America did it once. Like, a while ago, but it worked. It might have been a food coma, but it worked.

He ignored the stares from other patrons at McDonald's. The tray was over halfway full, and that was just because they had to make more burgers. Service was too slow. How lame.

But burying the delighted wiggly feeling in his belly in beef and bread wasn't going very well. If anything, the image just latched back to America's head and the feeling got stronger. England, the sun through the windows of the conference room, and the way he'd sat on the table but propped his feet on a chair. Pale fingers with knobby knuckles and a few scattered scars, none from needlepoint, manipulating the collar of his jacket with ease and care. The long, delicate pull of thread.

England's smile, almost hidden but for the satisfied curve of his mouth.

"This isn't working!" howled America in the restaurant, pounding his seat with a fist. A group sitting near the window jumped.

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair.

And why couldn't America have figured this thing out before? Because he'd spent a lot of time pushing England away, and so England stayed away now, giving them more space than America could stand some days. He only had himself to blame, but jeez. And it wasn't like he could just… tell England differently. America wasn't very good with those kinds of words.

What could he say? _Sorry, England, but I can't really look at you like the guy who took care of me anymore. If I do, I'll go crazy, because all I want to do is pull you against me, wrap around you, and never let go, even when you swear and bite me._

It was a little cheesy.

 _I don't even like you so much as you're a part of me, something I can't yank out of who I am, and the more this goes on, the less I wanna lose it._

Too vague.

 _I've only ever wanted one nation to acknowledge me._

Not entirely true, and a little weak.

 _Look at me only look at me never anyone else because it should always be me, England, just like it has to always be you._

He'd get called a selfish brat.

 _Lately, all I seem to do is watch you. The way you walk, the movements of your eyes, the dimensions of your body. I want to trace your bones and lick your shoulder blades and discover every part of you that is known, and unknown, to your people—_

Okay, he'd get punched.

America groaned and buried his head in his arms on the table. The tray of hamburgers was left alone. He wondered, briefly, if this was how France felt all the time, every second of the day: this unbearable biting want for someone against you. Maybe he was turning into a pervert like France. Oh god, England would really hate him then.

"I wanna be closer to you," he said despondently into his jacket sleeve, squeezing his eye shut. "S'not fair."

His fingers tangled around the button, cause of his ire.

"You got more nice Englandy attention than I've gotten in—"

America's eyes flew open. He stared at an empty ketchup packet in amazement. "That's it!"

He was a _super_ awesome genius! Unbeatable! A master strategist and undefeated mastermind of plans and stuff. No other could beat America in the art of intellect, design, and capture. He was hot shit, and he was going to do what America was made for—making the impossible happen.

And right then and there, America sat up, took hold of his dress shirt collar, and pulled _hard_ in both directions.

The shredding of cotton was the best sound he'd ever heard.

 **overkill**

"Oh my god," said England in horror. "You've ruined it."

America's face fell. "What?"

"The next meeting is in twelve minutes! What were you doing?!"

"I just… Well, there was this bull…"

"Give that to me," snapped England, already making for the dress shirt in hideous disrepair. America bashfully stripped it and handed it away. So absorbed in setting to his task was England that he almost missed America's equally bashful words.

"I really appreciate it, England."

Oh.

Oh, then. Then. That was just… yes. England ducked over his stitching, heart pounding entirely too loud in his ears, and tried to buckle a smile down. It didn't belong there when there was so little time to right things.

 **a basket born of hope**

Over the next few months, America filled England's mending basket with more clothes than he actually had in his closet (some were bought just for the sake of The Plan). After a while, he was able to create creative excuses for the holes and tears and split patches. They gradually grew more elaborate, until England stopped asking questions, sighed, and would take the shirt or pants offered to him.

"How did you ever do this on your own?" he'd ask.

America just grinned with every ounce of his oozing charisma. "I bought new clothes. A lot. But now I won't have to do that, and my economy will get even better!"

"You… never mind. Idiot."

It worked like a charm. America would split a few seams, bundle the items together, and go visit England with a perfect set of excuses for doing so. More often than not, he stuck around after depositing the bundle at England's feet. That was the whole idea, after all. He even suffered through several batches of homemade scones to be able to remain in the living area, sprawled out on his chest over the velvet loveseat, chin nested on his arms as he watched England work.

First, England cursed (rather impressively). Then he would make compensation demands. Then he would finally, at last, fall into quiet and do his mending in a way that made America's pulse flicker at odd intervals.

England got caught up when he sewed. And when England was caught up, America drank his fill of catching up with England.

Sometimes they talked. About politics, the weather. Sports, if they could stand to argue more than once. New trends that didn't make much sense. After a few weeks, it turned to books, to personal opinions that America was amused and yet endeared by, and England's treaty on why French wine was shit compared to Italian. And yet, other times, they did not speak at all.

In a gentle, abiding silence, they simply co-existed. America kind of liked that part, too.

It was during one of those days, in one of those silences, that America noticed something that wasn't new. No, never new, but somehow… a surprise.

"Could you hand me that thimble, America?"

"Huh? Oh yeah. Sure." It was a little silver unicorn thimble. Very girly. But then, England was anything but girly (he'd once almost ripped some guy's ear off, and America thought that was pretty neat). He passed the thimble over without further comment.

Their fingers met, albeit briefly, and then parted.

"Thanks," said England absentmindedly. He switched thimbles, spinning the new one about his thumb.

America was too busy slowly retracting his hand and thinking, _I love you._

 _I've always loved you, I think, and that's not nearly so scary as not knowin' it._

He watched England's fingertips put the world back together. And thought, for the first time, that maybe England was the one waiting for an answer.

 **not mine not yours**

It was France that put the thought into England's head.

"So much wear and tear," the nation drawled, dipping next to England and getting into his personal space. "He must have a lover, _oui_?"

"Beg pardon?" The response was immediate and automatic.

"America. I know your work, England, and he's definitely wearing it." France snuck him a sly glance, eyelashes lowered coyly. "Though, what work am I speaking of? Did you make the holes and then mend them, or did you mend the holes that someone else made?"

England stared at him.

Then, he turned back to the front of the room where America was exuberantly making plans and— _ruining England's life by merely existing, that bastard_ —gesturing with sleeves that had been put back to rights by England's own hands too many times to count. He loved those sleeves. He was proud of them. He'd worked hard on them.

Someone else might have worked hard wrecking them.

It made sense, really. As much as he hated to give the wine bastard any credit. There was no way the series of implausible accidents America claimed ownership of could have happened so often, so radically. England hadn't really figured—he just _hadn't_ , too secretly pleased in being needed, too happy to obtain the company he hungered for. He'd been a fool.

 _It's not the end of everything. So America has a lover. What business is it of yours?_

Every stitch, perhaps over ten thousand of them, and they suddenly mattered nothing. Not a whit.

 _Get a hold of yourself._

What was it about America that brought England to his knees so often? Dashed his emotions out on the rocks, dragged the most wretched and wonderful of things from inside of him? What kind of claim did America have on him, when surely there was no claim that England had on America? It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. He didn't deserve or ask for this.

 _You never had him, so you can't lose him again._

It was just a bit of stitching. That was all.

 **driftwood**

Something was wrong.

Something had been damaged. Something was changed. America's shirts came back mended, his hems were repaired, his seams tightened and realigned, but England's silences ranged from cold to tired. Their conversations were strained; often, England cut their visits short.

The line was trailing out of America's grasp and he had no way of finding the end in time.

What was it? What had he missed? He had said nothing, _nothing_. Not to deserve this distance. This space that America had toiled so hard to wear down between them. It widened into a crevice eaten by the earth like some monster lurking the whole line of here to there.

"I was thinking," said England, studiously examining his work, "that maybe you ought to start investing in clothes again. They're worn through, America."

He could fire off a joke or plan at a moment's notice, but he wasn't good at speaking like this. Not when it mattered. He didn't know what to say here!

"If you want, I can recommend some sturdier, more durable brands?"

It was on the tip of his tongue. Words that could change everything, even bring England back from the remote place he'd whisked away to. But America was also scared of that kind of change; so often, in his short but turbulent history, change had come in the form of cities being burnt. So often, the victory was hollow. He didn't want to see the affection England still had left for him become chased from those eyes.

This was his chance. No. No, he'd already lost it.

In the end, America's fast-talking, quicksilver mouth was useless. He let himself give a wooden nod, trying to reign in the clamor that said he wanted anything but.

The white cotton shirt England handed him was like a surrender; he just didn't know whose.

 **a frayed line too close to your heart**

For a long time, America didn't come to his doorstep. With or without something in hand to fix. England wasn't sure if he was better or worse off for it. In some ways, it was a relief to go back to an existence of certainties ( _it could have never been the way you wanted it, those selfish and creeping desires, the snow globe you shook too hard_ ). In other ways, it was much, much worse.

Strange, how the smallest of things burrow themselves so deeply.

He did his best to work through it. England was very good at working through things, after all. He buried himself in foreign policy and domestic troubles, ignoring his own hobbies (the embroidery left to dust in the cupboard, the dollies he'd been redoing draped over a chair semi-finished). It didn't get easier, but time went faster. England had gone over a hundred years withstanding a broken heart; he was determined to last another.

It was nearly half a year—six months of normalcy that tasted as sweet as it did almond-bitter—before something gave way. A hotel door, at a convention center in France of all places, and an impatient knock that England would recognize anywhere on the planet.

When he opened the door, America looked up and fidgeted. He had on the trousers for the formal dinner they were due at in less than an hour, and a starched white shirt and cummerbund. It was a good, slick look on him. England crushed the longing before it could see light.

"What is it? You'll make me late. Just because you can't be arsed about being on time doesn't mean—"

"I need help," interrupted America. He grimaced and tugged at the bottom of his shirt, and England noticed it: a loose button.

Of course.

"I know you're probably busy, but I'm not very good with this kind of stuff," America was saying, and for once, he seemed weary more than anything, a serious structure building up his countenance. "D'you think you could give me a hand? Just one more time?"

"Don't be daft." England rubbed his temple. "… Come in."

He got his sewing kit out (new thread had been added, but the satisfaction at his own cleverness wasn't nearly there, not as before). They were going to be late at this rate, so it had to be a quick job. Thank goodness it was just a button. England sat on the edge of his mattress and gestured for America to come closer.

Obedient, for once, America drifted toward him. He came to a stop in front of England, brow furrowing in confusion.

"I'll just do it right here," said England, reaching up. He slipped one hand beneath America's dress shirt ( _skin as warm as breath, shifting under his fingers as if shy, veering away_ ) and set to work with the other. If he forced his mind to go blank, he could ignore their closeness, the awkward stiffness to America's arms as they hung at his sides, and the nearly unbearable urge to just lean forward and rest his cheek against—

His heart hurt. When had it come down to this? It used to be, England didn't bother with hope. It used to be, no one gave him reason to hold onto it.

He didn't need this. He didn't need America. England was strong, and old, and had weathered more dreadful things than this love he had no idea what to do with. He was a master at stitching together what was left of rags ( _and of himself_ ). There was not a scrap left of this to hold onto.

It was done. He bit the thread.

"You know," said America quietly, above his head, "I'm an ungrateful brat."

 **and knot**

England looked up.

Greater men had fallen to lesser forces. England—the British Empire, the pirate, the mystic, the gentlemen, the hopeless—was the kind of fortress most men dreamed about kneeling in front of. Sometimes instead of moving forward, one has to stop, and still, and see. Defeat is so many different words. The grass at the base of the stone is soft enough to linger in.

America didn't really care. He just knew that England's fingernails kept brushing against his hip, and England's eyes were too much like the sea at high tide, and that he couldn't spend another day with this all packed up inside of him. It had to come out, and he had to _touch_ , and he had to say something. Anything.

England's hand shook, just once in surprise, under his shirt. "What?"

"I am. I'm an ungrateful brat." America lifted his hand. It was so easy. Easier than he thought it would be, to trace a line down the slope of England's nose. "You gave me everything I asked for and more. You took care of me. You still do. You try not to, but you're a stubborn and stupid old man, and so you end up doing it, anyway, even when you hate yourself for it."

"W-what are you—"

"I should be grateful. I'm not." America swallowed; it went down like glass. "I want _more_."

And even easier, like releasing a hold on something that cut into his palms, to rub his thumb over England's bottom lip and then, because the contact burned straight to his gut, stop. Stop and take England by the shoulders instead, England with the shrewd but bewildered eyes and slowly growing flush, England who didn't even fight when America firmly pushed him down flat on his back against the sheets. America went with him, forcing his weight between those frozen legs until England's thighs stretched snugly on either side of him.

America nosed England's collarbone, digging his hands underneath the dinner jacket that got in the way. It seemed all right, so he said his thoughts. "Sometimes I wish I could bury myself in you." Hoarser than he'd meant. "Get as close as possible, every inch of us, 'cause we've been sorta close, and we've been far apart, but we've never been _together_."

England made a choked noise.

Inches away from his face, America grinned.

And there, at last, pressed down the length of England's body like a single seam, America said all that he needed to say.

At some point, England twined his fingers in America's hair and yanked it ruthlessly to shut him up. And then he kissed him, just so. And then America kissed _him_ just so, lazy and wet and perfect, and even the noises of the bedsprings when they shifted set his nerves on fire.

They never made it to dinner.

 **to come**

To mend a shirt, there were a few golden rules England realized always applied:

One. Do not ask questions.

Two. Do your best work, even when you're angry.

Three. Make do with what you have. What you have might be better than you imagine, once it all comes together.


End file.
